That Certain Sense of Déjà vu
by Drico Lightstairs
Summary: -The last image he saw was of the girl flickering above him, flickering between corpse and flesh- déjà vu, noun, a feeling of having already experienced the present situation.


**Hey Guys! So I quit writing for almost a year now because my writing just wasn't good enough. At all. I want to know what you guys think. It's not my best but I just felt like showing it to someone- anyone. Tell me every single flaw you see in this. Every minor detail that is bad. The only reason I've posted this is to be a better writer and to share this freaky-deaky- just-thought-of-didn't- even-plan-sought-of-having-no-plot-idea. **

**Disclaimer- I do not own any of the two characters I used. They go to Rick Riordan. Only Miss Jones and the plot.**

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><p>My English teacher is one of those teachers you never forget. She told me that a story has to be gripping from the first chapter- paragraph even- or else the author has failed to write. She said use <em>He walked reluctantly, albeit determinedly towards the majestic blue door, where he heard the gurgling of a thing- a human? - trying to take his last breath<em> instead of something boring like _He walked towards the door where he heard a person behind it_

My teacher said to write events that would captivate the audience, whoever the audience may be.

_As the door slowly creaked its way open, the young delinquent saw a spider race across his vision, a thin silver line following him, the boys eyes moved sluggishly towards the noise he had heard recently and let out a low cry, from deep within his throat,_

Miss Jones had also said to describe, this was my weakest point because I could imagine everything, _from the dark and gloomy shadow lifting behind the boy_ to something meaningless such as the _small white bug crawling from the undeniably gruesome corpse._ I hardly wanted to bore my selected audience with details such as that. Although the maggot- soon to be fly- could hold a large part in my story.

_The boy tore his young and not-so-innocent-anymore eyes away from the rotting corpse that was positioned at the back of the room. A young girl he realized, as bile slowly made its way up his throat. He gripped his jet black hair as he saw blood dripping from the girls own strawberry blonde head. He wasn't sure if the 'strawberry' part of the 'blonde' was because of the blood, or if he was suddenly tremendously paranoid._

Miss Jones had said- before handing me the blank sheet of paper that would hold my grade for the semester- that I had to really describe the characters as well as really describe the layout. I thought that was absurd, and thought nothing of it.

_The boy, started looking around the room, for a place to run and hide. He didn't know why he wanted to hide. If his father would see him now, trembling at the rotting corpse only a few feet away, he would have laughed coldly in my face, glaring at him with the eyes all his children carried. The boy shivered at the thought of staring into those deep dark black eyes. Did he really have eyes like that? T__he fledgling of a man felt that someone was watching his back. But not in the way his older sister did. The way the monsters in the cupboard did._

Miss Jones had also said, staring those beady little eyes right at me, that if she caught a single cuss word that I would instantly fail.

_The boy swore repeatedly as he felt that feeling growing on him like wildfire grew on thousands of trees in the outback. Quickly, mercilessly and burning to the touch. T__he young lad quickly pulled his jacket closer and turned around to see the door closed behind him. He chuckled. In every horror story he had read, the door slammed not closed without his hearing. He was just panicking. If he turned around again, he would not see a poor young girl; no older than himself staring at him through dead green eyes. He would not see a long silk covered bed with dripping blood and disgusting maggots. He would see a normal room with a normal 21st century bed. He was sure of it._

"Suspense! Suspense I say!" Miss Jones would yell at the top of her old withered lungs. "In every good story we have angst and suspense!" I didn't know how 'angst' would help in a good story. It became sappy and utterly boring, so I ignored her heed.

_The boy calmly opened the door. To find a hallway that was there before. It went down and down until he couldn't see it anymore. There was a single lantern sitting on the floor that gave an eerie feeling that someone had deliberately put that there. His grip loosened on the door knob and he stepped out of the room. The lantern reminded the boy of his older sister, who he would never see again, who would never read to him again, who would never sing 'my little soldier' to him again. All was quiet for a second, a mere second, until the boy snapped himself around to face the door, giving himself minor whiplash. He went on his tippy toes to see through the door's window. He was right. He didn't see a rotting and decaying body with flesh ripping off of the bones. He wished that he could see that though, instead of what he actually saw._

Miss Jones was very determined to acknowledge the bright children in the class. She was a lighthouse, and without her lighting she was useless. Without the geniuses who could spell 'onomatopoeia' she was nothing. I, secretly thought, that saying 'onomatopoeia' was more difficult than spelling it. Maybe that's why I was never called 'sunny' in the classroom.

_The boy screamed, falling over himself and landing on his back. He took a deep breath, suddenly aware he was in a mansion, all on his own, with nowhere to go. Crashing and barrelling his way down the hall he reached the bright lantern. As his dirty long fingers reached out to grab the lantern, the wick fizzed out with an audible 'whoosh'._

My not-so-lovely-anymore English teacher also commented on to never use the same word again and again for every paragraph. She was a hypocrite in my opinion. She started the class off every day with the roll.

_Candle light now gone, the mansion seemed just that much darker. That much bigger. That much lonely. Boys should learn the lesson 'to run or to fight.' Yet this certain lad didn't seem to catch the black and white situation. He stood staring at the now burnt out candle, wondering where the wind had come from to blow the candle out inside the lantern. The answer scared him half to death- quite literally- when he felt the wind gush on the back of his neck, almost as if someone was blowing on his neck._

And Miss Jones had strictly said 'no happy ending, no happy mark,'

_Being as young as this certain boy was, he turned around slowly. He came face to face with a man holding a dog leash. The man's dog like teeth gnashed as he chuckled. He snapped the leash out then wound it around his hand, like a bandage. The boy could only stand and stare as the door behind the frightening new character opened and a young girl with blond hair and verdant green eyes stepped out drearily. She had a long gash down her face that was bleeding fiercely. The girl opened her mouth to speak, a small voice that carried down the long hallway. "Daddy?" The boy was waiting for someone to jump out and yell 'April Fools!' Extremely loudly in his ear, but he guessed he'd never know. A long brown beam from the rickety old roof came flying down and crashed into him with full force. The last image he saw was of the girl flickering above him, flickering between corpse and flesh._

I'm glad to say as I walked out of that classroom, that I was happy with whatever mark I would get. My essay was different comapred to all others. No clowns no axes no slenderman. Just a rotting corpse and a guy with a red studded dog leash.

Written by Nico di Angelo.

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><p>"A big fat C for you Mr di Angelo,"<p>

"How?" I demanded.

"My name is Miss Jhonus, not Jones," whoops.

I stared down at my paper in disgust. A child of Athena couldn't have done better. I worked my butt off just to write that first paragraph. Okay so maybe they would have... but they wouldn't have had that eerie feeling of déjà vu while reading. They wouldn't have that sense of "I've been there," While reading. Any child of Athena wouldn't have a distinct and horrid memory of that night I turned 11.

**So please read and review! It would mean a lot. Thanks! I just wanted to point out that this site is pretty awesome. I mean, an author gets the chance to actually send his or her work out into the world. I'm not sucking up or anything like that because _please... I just love PJO._**

**-Lightstairs**


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